


In a Split Second, to Save a Life

by chibistarlyte



Series: Unlikely Meeting [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Kink Meme, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John thought his days of saving lives were over, he ended up saving just one more.</p><p>Companion fic to Two Minutes 'Til Two to Die Today</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Split Second, to Save a Life

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this fic is a companion/mirror fic to Two Minutes 'Til Two to Die Today. This time, it's from John's POV. 
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta Aki! This story hasn't been Brit-picked, though. Please feel free to point out any and all errors to me!
> 
> Enjoy.

Waiting for a train was always so dreadfully boring. Especially without a destination in mind.

John supposed he should have felt just a bit guiltier than he did about skipping his appointment with Ella, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. What had she done for him, anyway? Most of his sessions consisted of him giving her the silent treatment for forty-eight minutes, give or take, or the two of them having staring contests that neither refused to lose. John had hoped that Ella would eventually give up on him, but if anything, she was just as stubborn—perhaps persistent was a better word—as he was. He’d give her that, at least.

But he still didn’t feel like attending his appointment. He idly wondered how badly he’d be admonished for not showing up this week.

John felt a bit silly and childish for his rebellion. He probably should have just gone to his damn appointment. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his new abundance of time. Much as he loved London, it all seemed so dull and boring now. Sometimes he wished he could just hop on the train and it would never stop, taking him far away from here. Far away from this new life he’d quickly come to hate almost as much as he hated himself.

With the hand not holding his cane—bloody, stupid thing—he pulled his mobile out to check the time. Six minutes until the two o’clock train. He slipped the hand-me-down phone back into his jeans pocket and allowed his arm to drop listlessly to his side. A slight tremor seized his fingers and made his dominant hand twitch, but he barely took notice of it anymore. It had become a common occurrence after the initial healing period of his injury. Being shot in the shoulder caused quite a bit of nerve damage. Though it had gotten better, it would never fully repair. He was reminded of it with every involuntary quiver of his hand, with every bout of numbness that left pins and needles in its wake. The cane he leaned on for support basically defined him as a cripple.

He was damaged goods, useless in every way. And he couldn’t _stand_ it.

Heaving a hopeless sigh, John cast a glance down the platform. People milled about, as per usual—people leading more exciting and fulfilling lives than him, surely—though one person stood out to him in particular. A man, about twenty feet away, tall and brooding with a mop of curls atop his head and cheekbones that could cut through solid brick. Besides the bloke’s noticeable and, frankly, otherworldly physical features, it was his demeanor that drew John’s attention more so than his outer appearance. Of course he was probably waiting for a train, maybe even the same train as John. But he seemed more than simply impatient. He seemed…jittery.

Antsy.

Waiting for something much bigger than a train.

Even at such a distance, John could see the manic look in the man’s eyes. He’d seen that look so many times before in the faces of others. Hell, he’d seen the expression on his own weathered face sometimes when he bothered to look in the mirror. Those long, lonely, sleepless nights spent in his dingy bedsit with nothing but his pistol to keep him company—

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh _shit_.

The closer the man inched towards the edge of the platform, the tighter John’s hand gripped his cane. A quick sidelong look in the opposite direction and he saw the train coming down the tracks. Closer and closer it came and John had a split-second decision to make, though it wasn’t so much a decision as it was him acting on pure instinct.

Before he knew it, he was flying down the platform towards the suicidal man. He collided with the dark-haired stranger and sent them both to the ground. Pain registered where John came in contact with the concrete, though he was mostly cushioned from his fall by the man whose life he’d just saved.

“Wh-what?” came a deep voice from beneath him, spluttering and confused.

John supposed he probably wasn’t doing the man any favors by lying on top of him, so he lifted himself up and stood straight and tall. He momentarily thought of offering the man a hand, but he had the distinct feeling that it’d probably be slapped away, so he just stood still and waited for the mysterious stranger to right himself.

“Why did you save me?” the man snapped, dusting off his coat and fixing John with the most intense stare the doctor had ever endured.

John refused to let himself feel intimidated. He shifted a bit under the stranger’s penetrating gaze, a little off-put at the way those silvery eyes seemed to pierce right into his soul. But his own stare didn’t waver, his stern look locked on the man’s impossibly gorgeous face.

Why _did_ he save him?

“Couldn’t let you do it, mate,” he said simply. He was a doctor, for God’s sake. Saving lives was his job, his _duty_. Well…it used to be. Now he didn’t really have a purpose.

“How did you know what I was about to do?” the man went on, some of the anger and irritation leaving his voice to be replaced with what John took to be genuine curiosity. The sudden change caught him off-guard, but he didn’t let that show.

He hesitated for a moment, then said as flatly as he could, “I know a suicidal bloke when I see one.”

Pot, meet kettle.

As the silence stretched on, John found himself wanting to know more about this stranger who tried to take his own life. What pushed him to do it? What kind of person was he? Why did John feel like he couldn’t hide anything from this man? And why, for the life of him, couldn’t he tear his eyes away from the beautiful enigma standing before him?

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man introduced himself, offering his hand.

“John Watson,” John replied, taking Sherlock’s hand for a shake. He ran the uncommon name through his mind a few times. Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. He liked the sound of it. It seemed…fitting for the man, somehow.

Sherlock quirked a small smile that had John so entranced that he almost missed the invitation of, “Coffee?” that Sherlock extended his way.

“…Sure,” John accepted, allowing a smile of his own to tug at his lips. It was a rather unfamiliar feeling, but he decided he might want to get used to it again.

This was certainly an unexpected turn of events. One minute, he was standing alone and miserable waiting for the tube, and the next he was heading out to grab coffee with a man whom he’d just rescued from an untimely death. In that moment, John was ever so grateful that he decided to skip his appointment with Ella that day. Fate was sure a funny thing, he thought. If he could chalk this sort of thing up to something like fate, anyway.

As John followed Sherlock up and out of the underground, he couldn’t help but feel as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. At least now he had something to look forward to.


End file.
